


Reunion

by OwlOfMyLove



Series: Isla!Verse [3]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-05-30 06:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6412510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OwlOfMyLove/pseuds/OwlOfMyLove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Though she would never be able to confirm it, the marks on her body told her she bore a child.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reunion

"Please," she cries through gritted teeth, "not so rough!"

It is the same plea she begs for every three days when the Nurse in charge of her, a severe woman with bored eyes and lips that appear to be permanently pursed together, roughly forces her into a bath. The tub in the room is old and there is rust around the rim of the drain with the scum line now stained to the line of the aging porcelain. Tonight the water is too hot; it happens rare where she's given a bath with water warmer than ice but it's not a fortunate moment. It's scalding hot and the moment the Nurse plunges her down, her skin is on fire and she cries and begs to come back out. In these intense moments, she swears she would do anything for the icy cold water she was more familiar with but on those nights where the water was as cold as the thickest iceberg, her mind would race the memories of this scalding water and wish the opposite of what she was forced into. 

She could bathe herself. She's not at risk for harming herself or others. Every time Patient pleads with the Nurse to let her bathe herself with the scratchy washcloth and thick bar of lye soap that is placed roughly on her skin that causes rashes and tears when the Nurse is feeling particularly impatient. Nurse pays her no mind, only with hisses for her to be quiet and to stop fighting so that the bath will be finished sooner.

" _Please_ ," Patient begs again. "It's too much. I think you're breaking my skin."

The Nurse sighs heavily from annoyance as she looks down at her wet uniform. "If you wouldn't fight me, I wouldn't have to be so rough!"

"The water is too hot. It's unbearable."  Her skin is red and no doubt will be cracked when she wakes the next morning. "I won't harm myself or any others if I'm just allowed to bathe myself. I promise."

"Be lucky you even get hot water at all," Nurse replies as she places the soap bar to her back and scrubs furiously. "This system is so out of date and it's not like there is money being peddled down here to cater to you like you're a princess!" The Nurse has heard it all every third day for years and wishes that this Patient would finally learn that this will happen whether she wants it to or not. 

She sobs more as the bath continues. The Nurse has finished with her skin and next comes the hair; a large cup is used to scoop up the water and wet her hair good enough for the nurse to lather it up with a dull shampoo that only makes her hair dry and brittle. The water that is poured to her scalp causes her to scream more, this time in more agony and with instinct to pull away and escape the Nurse. 

The Nurse grabs her hair, pulling her back down from escaping the tub and lathers it up with the shampoo, keeping a firm grip on her hair and ready to yank it down if the Patient moves in even the slightest way to push the Nurse over the edge.  

Again, the water is poured down from the top of her scalp and the dirty water begins to fill with the suds from her shampoo. Again and again her hair is rinsed and she screams from pain until the Nurse has decided that her hair is rinsed thoroughly enough. 

Finally finished, the Nurse allows her to stand and her skin feels as if it is on fire. She has to be strong to live in this asylum but moments like this make it difficult and she fights, weakly so. Screaming for help is pointless, she has learned after many attempts. 

A thin, scratchy towel is wrapped around her body to dry her off and she can feel certain areas of her skin that is undoubtedly raw from this bath. 

While the Nurse will always bathe her, she makes no attempt to dress her. By the end of every bath the Nurse is soaking wet from the battle and her patience is worn down thin. She is utterly frustrated and is all too happy to hand off the new linen to be worn and shut her Patient away in the room until the next morning when it's time to bring the meals.

"If you trust me to get dressed myself, surely you can let me bathe myself," she pleads softly as the Nurse ushers her back into her cell. 

The Nurse snorts. "If _she_ knew I let you even dress yourself without my supervision, it'd be my job." 

She.

Apart from the Nurse there is only one visitor to her cell. A woman that looks at Patient as if she is an animal on display. This woman visits on rare occasions and always the moment is the same; she lifts open the small door to the peeping window into the cell and her eyes pierce the Patient, as if to pick her apart piece by piece. Her dark painted lips smile and her eyes narrow; this is amusing to her and the Patient being in her cell is entertaining to her. She says nothing and the Patient never asks, too afraid of what the woman may say if she ever did speak up. 

Moments where the woman visits, the Patient fears for her life. 

The door to her cell closes and the Patient stands in her cell naked, holding her clothing in her arms. 

Many nights she wonders why she is forced to be in this cell. She can't recall a thing she's done wrong that would force her to be here and perhaps the lack of memory is the problem. Maybe that is why. 

Patient sets down the clothes on the bed, ready to change into them and prepare herself for sleep when the sensation hits her. 

It's sudden; a beautiful tingle that builds from her toes and works its way up. It visits her nearly every night and she appreciates it more than her own life itself. It is a fleeting sensation and over time she has left it believing, hoping, that is the beautiful thoughts of someone out there thinking of her. Missing her. 

She sighs softly as the sensation relaxes her enough to momentarily distract her from the pain the bath has left her in. 

"What  _are_ you?" She asks aloud, knowing no one and nothing will answer her.

Time is on her side in this cell and in her years - decades? - in here she's imagined every possible and impossible reasoning behind it. Comfort comes from her imagination telling her it is from someone outside the walls of the cell or asylum that love her and think of her fondly. 

She knows that somewhere, either alive or now dead, that she once belonged to parents. Parents that must have loved her deeply at one point in their lives. She has no memory of them today and wonders if they were the ones that placed her in this cell. Perhaps she was too odd for them; too different and difficult to raise that she was sent away. A _problem child_ that was beyond their means to care. Embarrassed, they may have told their friends she died instead of secretly locked away; always to deny now the existence of their daughter but to think about her late at night before they closed their eyes. 

The Patient laughed in her throat. She wasn't odd. There was nothing in any way particular about her; no claims of visions or disturbed thoughts that forced her parents to worry. Her thoughts were not particularly morbid or harmful and only when Nurse bathed her so roughly did she wish she was brave enough to scratch Nurses' face enough to distract her so she could run. How silly. 

Perhaps she was an orphan in this world. Given up at birth to parents not yet prepared to raise a child or one was forced to bury her parents before she was old enough to remember their faces. It still had yet to explain though how she would wind up in this cell. Surely someone would have looked at her and wanted to adopt her into their life? If not at least moving from home to home until she was an adult.

None of her scenarios make sense to her. 

She examines her flesh and looks for new markings that Nurse may have left her, preparing for the new aches that will keep her company. Knees and elbows are marked with a thick layer of dry, flaky skin that scratches painfully against the fabric she comes in contact with. Her hands and feet are covered with white builds of skin that ache whenever her feet or hands coil up. On her left shoulder she can feel her skin burning from where a new rash is forming from her recent physical encounter with Nurse. Her skin is already dry enough without new markings joining in throughout the week. 

"Skin like a crocodile," she teases herself as she looks at her chapped hands.  

Her thighs though have been marked since the moment she awoke in the cell.

The lines on her thighs creep up to the side of her stomach, stopping after a few inches of jagged length. The front, she can't help but noticed, is free of these markings, and they only seem to dominate her hips. A pearly pink shade, the tangle over her skin and never disappear nor arrive in any new areas on her body. 

Stretch marks. 

Maybe she was a mother, she can't help but to wonder. A child was carried in her womb for months and born to her happy and healthy with bright pink skin and eyes full of wonder. Thin hairs atop their head and a hunger that was soothed by her breast. She loved this child with all her heart and did everything she could in her life to ensure the child was loved, happy, and never felt the pain of being alone. Her child could still be out there today, thinking of their birth mother that once loved them ever so dearly and sending the beautiful sensation her way to remind her that the child remembers her. 

A young, teen mother perhaps. That would make sense to her. An embarrassment, maybe in an inappropriate scandal that she was pregnant too young and because she chose to keep her child, she was sent to live in this cell. Maybe the father was an older man, a man of power and hid her down her to keep her quiet. 

Patient shakes her head. Now _that_ would be absolutely ridiculous. 

The Patient dresses herself as the draft in her cell makes her body begin to shiver. 

Or maybe she was not a good mother and that was the real reason she was here. Maybe she was not a good person at all and did something so horrid, so disgusting, this was the only option. 

It was a dark thought and one she did not ever want to admit, even to herself.

People were not placed into isolated cells for no reason. Clearly she had done something in her life that had made her worthy of being placed here and while she was adamant of telling herself she was innocent and this was a huge misunderstanding, it was most likely not the case. 

Though no memories of her prior self, she knew many things, blessed with some knowledge about her surroundings outside of the four walls she was accustomed to. She knew that women would sometimes suffer after the birth of a child and do horrible, horrible things to themselves or...

"Don't be silly," she tells herself sternly as she brushes her hair with her fingers. 

The markings could be a sign of anything but pregnancy. It wasn't the only reason people bore them.

Yet it wasn't just the markings on her sides that told her she could have been a mother. Her breasts told a story that was almost in partnership with the lines on her sides. Though not a pearly pink and thick, the lines on her breasts were thinner, much, much thinner, and only just the faintest bit darker than the rest of her pale skin. They were almost impossible to catch if she hadn't had so much time to examine her body, she may have overlooked the fact that her breasts were not firm and mark free, but instead soft and bearing marks that at one point in her life, they did grow dramatically only to go back down in size to a happy medium between what was and what they became. 

She knew that enlarging breasts could be an early sign of a pregnancy and her body did not look like it was free from a dramatic period in her life. Something happened that created these changes. 

Patient sat on the bed and cradled her head in her dry palms.

"Maybe," she whispers to herself, "I killed my baby."

Now she has forced herself to dwell. 

"What if I neglected my child," her damp curls felt as if they were slowly suffocating her. "I was too depressed or maybe just a horrible human and I left my poor baby in filth, crying for the warmth and comfort of their mother so all they ever knew was loneliness. Was I sick enough to drown my baby?" The words did not want to come out, the imagination of her tiny child flailing their small arms and letting out gasping cries before slipping away is too much to say aloud. "Did I attempt to harm both myself and the baby? A murder-suicide that only resulted in the life of my child and me in solitude?"

This one made the most sense. She must be mentally unwell; sick in the head after the birth of her child that prevented her from having the strength to reach out and ask for help before doing something so terrible. So  _unforgivable_ that made authorities lock her away here from the public eye. The shock of it all, realizing what horror she committed, that her mind created a clean slate. A blessing and a curse. 

Patient took her right hand and moved it to her left side, the stretch marks tingling. 

Maybe the beautiful and warm sensation that came to visit her nearly every night was not love being sent from someone who still spared a thought for her, but her child, tormenting her to remind her that their small self looked to her for protection and love and she shut them out. Haunting her and reminding her of her sins. 

"If you did kill your child then you deserve to be down here."

* * *

The door to her cell opens quickly and it awakes her from her light sleep. A man is entering her room, not Nurse. He's dressed in white scrubs and a thick scar is across his neck that instantly catches her attention.

His eyes are serious, he extends a hand towards her. "Come with me."

Knowing better than to argue with anyone who enters her room, she takes the mans hand and is almost surprised by how gentle his touch is. Soft, without a grip to pull her away. Her heart flutters. A hopeful moment that this was the new Nurse in charge of her and that he would be kind to her over the course of his duty. 

"Who are you? Why are you doing this?" 

"My name is Jefferson," the man explains," and I need your help to do something that I can't. There's a man. His name is Mr. Gold. Find him. All you have to do is tell him where you've been and that Regina locked you up."

Her head begins to swirl with this new information. Find a Mr. Gold, but where is she to begin searching? Regina; the woman who stares at on the coldest of nights? "Wait a minute. What?"

This man, Jefferson, keeps his eyes on her and repeats his words in a more simplistic form. "It's very important. Mr. Gold's gonna protect you. But you _have_ to tell him Regina locked you up. He's gonna know what to do. You understand?"

She nods, excessively so. "Yes, I-I have to find Mr. Gold."

"Good. I'll lead you out of the asylum but after that you have to do this on your own."

He keeps hold of her hand and pulls her behind him, more quick than she is familiar with walking and once leaving the asylum and entering what was above her the entire time, a hospital, the linoleum blinds her for a moment. She hisses from the pain in her eyes and takes her hand away from Jefferson's to rub her eyes so they can adjust to this unfamiliar light. When she recovers and is ready to continue she finds herself alone. 

She wanders through the town alone.

The sunlight is bright, more than she is familiar to and her eyes are sensitive to it which makes it only difficult to read signs that could direct her or reach out to residents that could point her in the right direction. No one seems to take mind of her dry, unkempt hair, wandering look, and hospital clothing. Every one has their own life to worry about and the whole town appears to look right through her as if she's invisible. If they remember her, the reason she was in the asylum, she does not mind a single ounce that they look the other way. She prefers it. 

Finally, she finds a sign that leads her to Mr. Gold. 

Cautiously, she walks up to the door of the shop where a sign tells her they are closed and for a brief moment she feels defeated, exhausted from walking so far for the first time in so long. Her only lead may have possibly lead her to a dead end. 

The lights inside the shop catch her attention and she peers inside through the windows. The walls are dark, covered with different artwork and large treasures to contrast to bring little light to them. Glass cabinets hold countless of priceless items that are enticing and easily catch the eyes of those that may pass by. In front of the cashiers desk a small table is set up with a singular, equally small, chair that holds the frame of a young girl that could be no more than four years of age.  

She's a beautiful child with her eyes focused on the colouring pages in front of her. Peach coloured skin, rosy cheeks, beautiful dark brown hair that is pulled into a lopsided ponytail. It has been so long since she's seen a child that the beauty of this one almost takes the Patient's breath away.

Patient knocks gently on the door to alert the child and hopefully not startle her.

The little girl lifts her head up and instantly rushes over to open the door as if to have forgotten the 'closed' sign in front. "My Papa says the shop is closed this afternoon." Her voice is soft and warm as if to wrap her listeners in a blanket.  

"I'm sorry, I was told it was important to come find Mr. Gold. Is...is he here?"

The girls eyes examine the clothing of Patient, confused by the plain and over-worn hospital clothes. "He is. I can go get him for you."

"Thank you," Patient coos softly. The child has ran off before the words can escape her lips. 

Slowly, she walks towards the table the child was colouring on and peers down at the artwork. The drawing is of the shop with two people standing in front of it with large smiles on their faces. Not knowing what this Mr. Gold looks like, Patient can only assume it is him that is drawn in black with a cane next to him and the child with matching brown hair and a beautifully drawn purple dress. The sun shines in the corner of the paper and the girl has drawn several rainbows in the sky over top the shop. 

Footsteps, heavier than what would belong to the child, distract her from the drawings. 

"I'm sorry, but whatever business you have is going to have to wait, I'm afraid the shop's closed-"

Nervously, she takes a few steps away from the drawings as to not look nosy. "I'm sorry. I was, uh, I was to-to find you and tell you that Regina locked me up. Does-does that mean anything to you?"

The man before her is dressed in a fine suit, aided with a walking stick, and graying shoulder length hair. He looks at her as if he is staring at a ghost and momentarily she becomes aware of how thin and white the dark cell has made her become. 

He walks up to her and shakily reaches out to grab her shoulder, giving her a firm squeeze. "You're real. You're alive. She did this to you?"

With every word passed between them, she feels more lost. She wants to ask him what he means by _you're alive_ but knows so long as he agrees to protect her, she will have time to ask questions. "I was told you'd protect me."

"Oh, yes!" Mr. Gold sobs as he pulls her forward into an embrace, burying his face into her shoulder. "Yes, I'll protect you."

The embrace startles her. He _knows_ her but she can not recall the faintest memory of this Mr. Gold and so, politely as she could, she pushes away from him to which he almost reluctantly agrees to. "Um, I'm sorry. D-do I know you?"

"No," his mouth quivers as he attempts to hold back tears. "But you will."

He takes her hand and guides her to the back of the shop in the same manner Jefferson did. The room was just as dark as the entrance to the shop only with a more chaotic feel. Stacks of unorganized items traveled up the walls, mountains of papers that need to be filed but have neglected in the recent weeks, a daybed resting off to the side where the child is sitting absentmindedly with her attention on a new colouring book, supported by a small coffee table that has been pushed next to the daybed. 

"She's beautiful," the Patient comments as she admires the innocence of the child. 

Mr. Gold gently squeezes her hand before letting go. "Thank you. My daughter, Isla, is a perfect replica of her mother."

"Is she going to be alright with me around? I know you said you'd protect me but if I am a nuisance..." 

Gold lets out a choking sob that he fails to suppress. "No. No. Her mother is gone."

"In heaven," Isla pipes up. 

"I-I'm sorry." Her body burns from the embarrassment and sore topic she stirred, wishing she could take it back.

Despite his choking reaction when it was mentioned, Gold shakes his head dismissively. "There's no need. You didn't know." He clears his throat and regains his composure. "Isla, this young woman will be staying with us for a while. I need you to treat her with the same kindness you show me and Mr. Dove. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Papa." Isla calls for the Patient. "Do you want to colour with me?"

The child warms her heart and helps ease her into this new situation, distracting her from the unfamiliarity that she has between an anxious Mr. Gold. "I would love to."

Isla pushes the box of crayons to the middle and reaches for a small stack of blank sheets for them to begin marking.  

She reaches for a pale blue crayon and begins to draw, fantasizing about what her childhood might have been like before the asylum. Colouring with her mother, hundreds and hundreds of drawings that her parents are forced to sort through on what is to be kept for memories and secretly tossed away. She admires Isla's artwork; flowers of every colour with long stems, a large sun, blue fluffy clouds. She takes inspiration and copies the artwork, her skills as juvenile as the child she mimics. 

"Papa doesn't really like colouring with me," Isla notes. "I think it makes him sad."

Patient glances up at Mr. Gold, who has his eyes fixed on the two girls in front of him. His expression softens and he looks almost ashamed by the fact. 

"Oh..um, I like colouring with you."

Isla reaches for a dark pink crayon and smiles softly. "I hope we become friends."

"I hope so too, Isla."

While focused on her drawing, she hears Gold's footsteps pace around the back room. His mind elsewhere, perhaps wondering where he is supposed to keep her; how is he supposed to keep her safe from this Regina woman. Guilt overcomes her quickly by how much of a nuisance she is becoming for the Gold family, even if Mr. Gold himself will not admit it. She wants to offer words of comfort, to help him with his anxious pace and then it hits her hard; her mind begins to swirl. It's a brief moment that lasts only a second but fills like an eternity. Memories flood her; the Ogre wars, the deal she made with Rumplestiltskin, their kiss, their child, Regina taking her away. Belle holds her composure

Belle's hand releases the crayon and she slowly stands up, which catches Rumplestiltskin's attention and forces him to stop pacing. 

"Rumplestiltskin."

His lips begin to tremble at the sound of his name and waits to hear what she has to say next. 

"I-I remember." Belle keeps her position behind the coffee table, not wanting to part from Isla any more than she has been forced to for more years than she would dare care to know. "I love you."

In an instant, he is before her and embracing her once again. Tighter and closer than before, shaking and the tension she felt earlier in their first encounter gone. His fingers tangle in her hair with a soft tug and he can't bare to let her go. "Yes. Yes. And I love you, too."

She lets out a soft sob and kisses him. Not caring that she's still sobbing into his mouth, tears now forcing their way down her cheeks, she kisses him still to make up for all the ones she has once yearned for when alone in the Queen's tower. And to her delight, he kisses her back; more gentle than she with his lips still quivering as they make contact with hers. He is aware of her delicate frame and how long a proper, loving embrace has escaped her knowledge. 

A tug at her dress pulls her apart from him to the attention of someone equally in dire need. 

"Mama?" 

Again, Belle lets out a sob and is not bothered by the fact she may sound like a wounded animal. Rumple lets her go, almost reluctantly, and she takes no time to fall to her knees to embrace her daughter close, kissing her cheeks and stroking the lopsided ponytail. Isla's hair has grown so much since she was taken and now the toddler ringlets are fading away, forcing her to let out another loud sob when she realizes just how much she has missed. 

"Isla!" Belle moans as she rocks her daughter. "Oh, my darling Isla!" 

The cane Rumple is using to walk clatters to the ground and soon he is on his knees, his arms wrapping around them both. Mother and daughter safe in his arms, tears being shed and countless sobs escaping their lips. Isla's tears soak Belle's hospital gown and her runny nose is used as a tissue while her daughter takes in all of the new information, the memories returning to her overwhelming for someone so young. Rumplestiltskin kisses them both, face, head, arms; soaking in each second passing of the three of them in this embrace. 

Warmth greets her as it did those years in the hospital. It starts off slow as always from the tip of her toes, circling and creeping and warming her legs, torso, arms, her heart pounds wildly against her chest as the warmth reaches the top of her figure. Finally, Belle understands. 

Love, from Isla. 


End file.
